Indeterminate Sentencing
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ BTT, Juvie!AU Implied Pairings ]] They looked at each other for a moment. Gilbert hadn't even heard him approach. The boy smiled. "Hi, I'm Antonio." Gilbert nodded. "Gilbert." Antonio beamed brighter. "I'm in for assault and battery. You?"
1. No Bubblegum

**Anonymous asked** : Could I possibly get something for the I feel like an angel baby prompt for the BFT (my OT3) ?

I will work that sentence in somewhere in this, you mark my words. But yes-a multi-chapter. I have no idea how many chapters.

NOTE: The BFT will _not_ be paired together in this story.

Implied RusAme, SpaMano, and FrUk.

* * *

"Mr. Beilschmidt," the judge said, reclining back in his chair.

It looked like a comfy chair, something Gilbert would have killed to sit in. Instead, he was here, standing at a podium. The chair back at the defendant's desk wasn't too comfortable, either.

"Would you care to explain why you once again broke the conditions set at your last hearing?" the judge continued.

Gilbert didn't like the judge. He seemed distracted, eyes half-lidded. He was probably thinking Gilbert was just like every other slacker, another deadbeat that was going to wind up at as a gas station attendant. Who probably thought he had bombed the SATs, that he was a _waste of potential_. Just like everyone else.

Through gritted teeth, "I don't like school."

"As we've discussed in the past, and as I'm sure you've discussed with your JCCO, school is an obligation. Not an option, Mr. Beilschmidt. An obligation." The judge shuffled the papers on his desk; probably blank, something that was supposed to be intimidating.

"An obligation," Gilbert repeated.

"Unfortunately for you and your family, you have broken the conditions set forth in your suspended commitment. That's not good, Mr. Beilschmidt. Not good."

"Really? Had me fooled," Gilbert muttered, back straight and eyes even.

The judge raised a lazy eyebrow. "You have both failed to attend classes at your school, as well as attend therapeutic groups—"

"They didn't help." Gilbert looked away from the judge to the carpet. It was an ugly carpet. "I _did_ go, and it didn't help me any," he continued quickly. "She just talked and talked about what it was like when she was a kid, and she didn't even ask me about my life."

Another shuffling of the paper. "Did you consider the fact you didn't put yourself forward? Try to interact more with the group?" The judge flashed the papers. "I have your reports here, Mr. Beilschmidt."

 _Then why'd you ask?_

Gilbert kept his gaze on the ground as the judge talked at him. Words and words about the rest of Gilbert's life and how this was going to affect his permanent record. In the end, Gilbert just stopped responding to questions—none of it mattered.

"You will be placed in Saliscreek Youth Detention Center for an indeterminate sentence. When your caretakers at the facility—"

Gilbert looked up. "'Indeterminate?'"

"It means—"

"I _know_ what it means. You're just—throwing me in there? You have to give me a date of release. You have to." Something inside Gilbert shrieked. "Please," he spat out.

The judge tilted his head in what was probably supposed to be sympathy. His eyes were still detached, and Gilbert's mouth twisted into a sneer.

"Unfortunately, until you are deemed societally safe—"

" _Safe_?!" Gilbert leaned against the podium. "I didn't go to school! I didn't hurt anybody! I didn't even fuck—sell drugs, you can't just throw me in there and throw away the key!"

The judge didn't even look up.

"Look at me. You can't—" Gilbert's voice cracked.

"I'm sorry Mr. Beilschmidt, but my mind has been made up. Once your supervisors—"

Gilbert made to step around the podium. "You just can't do this! _Listen_ to me!"

"—Have deemed you fit to reenter society, we will reevaluate your case."

Someone grabbed Gilbert's arm and hauled him back. Gilbert struggled, but his arm was yanked behind him, and before he could even comprehend what was happening, the handcuffs were back on. The guard twisted, and Gilbert snarled like a caged dog.

Gilbert was led toward the door. The other kids in the room, the others awaiting their turn in front of the judge, stared as he passed through the aisle.

"Have a good day, Mr. Beilschmidt."

Gilbert's hung his head, cheeks burning.

 **…**

There was another kid on the bus. Gilbert watched him, eyes occasionally flicking up to the guard at the front of the bus. The guard, for his part, was doing a marvelous job of looking bored. His gun did a good job of looking dangerous.

The kid didn't seem to care about any of this. He was blond, and he sprawled in his seat, and he looked like he should have been chewing bubblegum. He grinned at Gilbert.

"Your hair's not gonna' last long in there, dude. Knew this kid who tried to redye his hair green and he was thrown in—"

"No talking," the guard called.

The blond shrugged and leaned back. Gilbert got the acute feeling that he was being judged, so he glared back, took up as much space as possible, and tried to remain as aloof. The other kid just grinned wider.

That became much more difficult when they pulled up to the building. Everything was squat and concrete; one large gray, sad square surrounded by chain-link and barbed wire. Gilbert had to force his knees not to shake as he stood.

The blond practically bounced to the front of the bus. Gilbert followed, stretching his fingers and shaking out his hands behind him, hoping that it might return circulation. The other kid didn't even seem to notice his handcuffs.

Another guard emerged from the building, and the two were led inside.

 **…**

"Any medical conditions?"

Gilbert sat on the table, feeling like he was seven-years-old. "Uh."

The woman sighed, and Gilbert sat up straighter.

"Allergies, asthma, lice, crabs…"

"Crabs?"

The woman looked at him. "You have crabs?"

" _No_!" Gilbert coughed. "No."

 **…**

Gilbert got changed quickly in the nurse's office before another guard let him into the main room.

All the guards were starting to look alike to Gilbert—blue and slightly overweight and looking at him with a vague sort of pity. Disdain. Gilbert found himself meeting their eyes and scowling.

The place reminded Gilbert of his school's cafeteria. There were metal tables in the center of the room. Built into the walls were cell doors, the same color as the guards' uniforms. A metal staircase led to a walkway wrapping around the room, and Gilbert could see more doors as they passed underneath.

A few kids milled around, and a few looked his way. Gilbert squared his shoulders.

"This is your cell," the guard introduced, gesturing around. "You'll be sharing with Bonnefoy. When a guard orders you to hit your door, you must return here immediately. If you do not obey orders, I will be forced to use physical means to make sure you aren't a danger to those around you."

 _Sure sounds 'forced.'_

 _"_ Is that clear, Beilschmidt?" The guard turned to face him, and Gilbert became aware of the gun in his belt.

"Yes."

"Yes, _sir_."

Gilbert swallowed, grit his teeth, shut his eyes. "Yes, sir."

The guard grunted, and Gilbert opened his eyes to watch him move away.

"Carriedo," the guard called, "show the newbie around."

Gilbert looked around, wondering which boy would come forward. He met eyes with a tall boy with a knitted scarf, then noticed the blond boy from the bus standing nearby, leering. Gilbert clenched his fists.

It took him a second to notice the brunet standing a few feet away. They looked at each other for a moment. Gilbert hadn't even heard him approach. The boy smiled.

"Hi, I'm Antonio."

Gilbert nodded. "Gilbert."

Antonio beamed brighter. "I'm in for assault and battery. You?"


	2. Porno Mags

_I'm in for playing hooky._

Assault and battery? Gilbert's eyes flicked up and down the other boy. Antonio slouched and grinned and spoke with a slight lisp—underneath the t-shirt and the sweatpants, he looked dangerous. His whole body was alert despite his posture, ready to straighten and lash out.

"Uh."

Antonio nodded like Gilbert had explained the whole thing. "Unruly behavior? I think they got the Ox in on—nothing they really proved, you know? Vague…" Antonio waved his hand to finish the sentence.

"Yeah. Yeah, it was something like that." Gilbert shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around.

"How long are you in for?"

Gilbert wasn't sure what expression crossed his face; Antonio frowned and tilted his head to the side. He looked genuinely concerned, which was fucking insane, because this kid probably bashed in someone's face with a crowbar or something.

"They didn't give you a date?"

"Nah."

"Ah. Ah, that's not good."

Gilbert shrugged. "What's back there?" He jutted his chin toward the far side. "Is that the art room, or something? Are those pictures?"

Antonio followed his gaze and looked delighted. "That's the living room."

 **...**

Sleep was impossible. The bed was hard the pillow stank of every other person who had laid their head there. Gilbert imagined lice crawling through his hair, hallucinated itches.

The first night had him sitting against the wall, head hanging down onto his chest; it was the only way he could sleep.

 **…**

The second night, a light was left on _somewhere_ , and Gilbert stared at Francis' calendar. It hung in between their two beds with tape. There was a French blessing written in cursive, and Gilbert mouthed the foreign words to himself.

Gilbert was almost disappointed Francis had a calendar. He had expected chalk, rows and rows of tally marks counting down the days to release, pining. But instead, Gilbert remembered Ludwig's school calendar; the tests in red, the sports in blue, the miscellaneous in green.

Gilbert stood, walking over and flipping through the other months. Generic vineyards and oceans and mountaintops. Always with a French sentence penned in one of the corners.

January— _Janvier_ —there were notes written in the days. Gilbert squinted, leaning closer and moving so more of the light hit the paper. It was almost impossible to read, but it didn't _seem_ like French. Up until August, each day was crossed off with a heavy X, notes hidden underneath. He hadn't even realized in the gloom.

Juvie only allowed pencils. Most of the graphite had smudged from the Xs.

"What—"

Gilbert jumped, whipping around to Bonnefoy. The boy was sitting up in bed, back to the cell—bedroom door. His face was in shadow, and Gilbert felt like he had just rifled through someone's diary.

"What are you doing?" Francis asked, an edge to his words.

"I was just looking," Gilbert said quickly, loudly.

"I didn't know it was yours to look through." He was so calm; Gilbert would have preferred Francis to jump up and punch him. "Do not snoop through my things."

Gilbert pressed his back against the wall. "I didn't know it was so important, okay?"

Neither of them talked. Gilbert stared at the shadow of Francis' face for as long as he was able. He grit his teeth and climbed back in bed, forcing his head onto the pillow, back towards Bonnefoy's bed.

His cheeks burned.

The calendar remained untouched on the wall; a snowy city, black French words.

 **…**

"So, bro, what're you even in for?"

Alfred was very much naked, as was Gilbert. Juvie didn't believe in shower stalls for the bathroom. Everyone stood in a row and washed as fast as they possibly could, soap clenched in their hands and shivering.

There was never any fucking hot water.

"I shanked a guy," Gilbert said, voice dampened by the rushing water.

"Yeah, no fucking way, puss-bag." Alfred reached up to push back his nonexistent glasses. "You don't seem like you even _could_ shank someone, even if they had a knife to your throat."

"That a challenge, Jones?"

"Please," Alfred scoffed.

Gilbert kept his gaze straight at the tile. "I could definitely shank you. I will, too."

" _Please_." Alfred was full on snickering. "You wouldn't even know how to make a shiv. You don't have that sort of upward mobility—you have nothing to trade with."

Gilbert could feel Alfred studying him, and it made his skin crawl. He scrubbed his head, wincing when his scalp started to burn. Glancing over, Alfred was out of the stream of the water, pressed against the tiling, grinning.

"It's the only place we can talk. Winter had ears everywhere, you know?" Alfred said, reaching up to adjust where his glasses should have been. "Though really, if you're interested in something, I can probably get it to you."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck would I even want?"

"Tobacco, weed, toothbrush." Alfred leered, "Porno mags?"

The water temperature dipped a few more degrees, and Gilbert had to step out from under the stream. A few other people couldn't take it, and the showerheads began to shut off. Alfred leaned closer and crossed his arms.

"What? No fun in prison?"

"No, it's just fucking stupid. If they catch me with any of that shit, they're just going to extend my sentence." Gilbert's teeth chattered. "I'd like to get out of here as soon as possible."

"Dude, you've only been here like, three days." Alfred rolled his eyes. "You have _months_. You could have like, a year to go. One dirty mag isn't gonna' change a fuckin' thing, bro. Everyone here has a cigarette or two. Everyone breaks the rules. It's why we got put in here."

Gilbert shut his water off and stepped away. "You built a pipe bomb."

" _Allegedly_ built a pipe bomb! Hey! Don't fucking tell people I told you that!"

Gilbert grabbed his towel from the bench and wrapped it around his waist. Alfred hurried after—not one fucking speck of decency—completely naked, standing next to Gilbert as he hurriedly pulled on underwear underneath the towel.

"Seriously, don't tell people," Alfred muttered. "My lawyer's gonna' kill me if she hears I've been talking shit."

"I won't, you giant fuckwad," Gilbert said, pulling on his pants before finally lifting the towel to his hair. "I don't think that's why you're actually in, anyways."

"Least I have a reason." Alfred watched Braginski walk by. "I could get you more bleach for your hair."

Alfred still hadn't covered up. Gilbert groaned and threw the towel at Alfred, refusing to look in the other boy's direction. "For the last time, I don't want anything."

"All right, fine, but don't complain to me when your roots start to show." Alfred finally wrapped the towel around his waist. "Are you eating yet?"

"It isn't food," Gilbert snapped, pulling on his t-shirt.

"Starve, I don't give a fuck. Let me know when you stop pouting in your room and actually decide to eat."

* * *

 **We continue apace in our story.**

 **I've researched pretty heavily into the detention centers, and they're p messed up.**

 **Anyways, review, thoughts, critiques-all are welcome!**


	3. Playground

"Well, look who joins us from his fucking palace on the sea!"

Alfred grinned at him. He was the only one sitting at the table, and the other boys give the table wide berth. He sat nearest to the living room, one of the only places where the heater actually felt liked it worked.

Gilbert was cold and angry.

"Finally decide to eat? Decided you weren't better than these?" Alfred picked up one of the toasted waffles and shook it.

Gilbert scowled and slapped his tray down across from Alfred, sat stiffly in his seat. Some part of him wanted to throw the tray back at the kitchen workers, but his head was pounding.

The waffles were still cold. They must have been frozen, not toasted through all the way.

Alfred laughed at him.

"This is the best it gets. Unless, of course…" His smile is sleazy. "You finally decide to stop being a puss-bag and let me sneak you some candy. My brother brings me some from the vending machine. Ain't even illegal, bossman."

"I'm not in the fucking mood," Gilbert said.

" _Some_ one has low blood sugar." Alfred shoved another whole waffle in his mouth. "Don't worry," he said around the food, "you'll be missin' this stuff by the time you get out."

"That's disgusting."

"What're you, my mom?" Alfred raised his hands and swallowed the food. "Alright, alright, obviously we're not in the mood to play. No need to look like you're gonna' kill me."

They ate in silence for a moment. Gilbert looked around the kitchen. Antonio and Bonnefoy sat together. Bonnefoy was staring daggers at him, and Gilbert glared back. He wasn't in the mood for this shit, either.

At least he can feel his toes. The heat from the living room was warm on his back. The doors were always kept open.

"We get to go outside today," Alfred said.

Gilbert looked at him. "We get to go outside? It's fucking freezing. Don't they have a gym or indoor basketball court?"

"Oh my God, what do you think this is?" Alfred pushed his glasses up his nose, then threw his arms in the air and gestured around. "This? Right here? This is _jail_."

Alfred spun around in his seat, leaned back against the table, arms spread. He sat like that for a few good minutes, and Gilbert eventually looked back at Bonnefoy.

The guards shifted, and Winter made his usual stroll through the kitchen before disappearing back behind one of the locked doors. That was all he ever seemed to do: look threatening.

"What're you in for?" Alfred spun back around. "Just tell me."

"Robbed a bank."

Alfred snorted. "You don't have the balls for that. I've seen them."

Gilbert shoved himself away from the table and brought his tray to the bin, throwing it down. He wanted to scream. He wanted to demand the cooks to make better fucking food, and that they shut the light off at night. He wanted to have some say in some thing.

Gilbert stood there, debating, seething.

A guard strolled by, raised an eyebrow at him. Gilbert stared back without thinking, and the guard's face got red.

"Got something to say, Beilschmidt?" He stepped forward, and Gilbert's body reacted before he could think. "Do you want to be thrown in solitary, Beilschmidt? Because I'd love to show you there."

No, Gilbert didn't mean that. He backed away from the guard, looked away, clenched his jaw. "Sorry, sir."

"Go sit down."

 **…**

The wind blew down the corridors whenever someone opened the door. It _was_ fucking freezing out, but everyone was leaving the kitchen, slowly but surely.

"I'm not going out there," Gilbert said, watching a tall kid stroll toward the doors. "I'm going to lose a finger from frostbite."

Alfred's head swiveled to look at him. He raised an eyebrow, and for the first time, he wasn't jeering. "You can stay in here if you want."

Gilbert frowned. He could already feel himself starting to shiver, though he made sure his hands weren't shaking. Everyone who had walked out so far only wore their t-shirts; Gilbert hadn't grabbed his sweatshirt.

"I'm going." Alfred looked around the kitchen, leaned against the door of his room, looked cool and in-control.

Gilbert put his hands on his hips. "What, that means I have to go, too?"

Alfred shrugged. "Stay inside. Whatever."

 **…**

"Chilly?" Alfred smiled at him and blew into his hands.

"No, I'm not chilly. I'm actually burning up. It's stuffy inside, don't you think?" A gust of wind nearly swept Gilbert off his feet, and he slapped his arms around himself. " _Fuck_! What is _wrong_ with you people?"

Alfred just laughed and jogged off. Gilbert stood by the doors, watching his breath puff out in front of his face.

Outside was just a big cement field. A few boys jogged around the edge, but most were lifting weights. Gilbert blinked. Was it really safe to allow a bunch of delinquents to handle heavy, blunt objects? The guards in the watch tower didn't seem to have a problem with it.

Gilbert shrugged and walked over to the weight rack, choosing something he hoped was close to what he had at home. The metal bit at his hands, but after a few minutes, everything was numb.

For the first time in days, Gilbert didn't think. His arms hurt, ached until he had gotten into his groove. Then he just counted reps. His body moved and his mind was pleasantly absent, noting vaguely how slowly Alfred jogged.

 **…**

"I haven't said hello to you yet."

Gilbert jerked, nearly dropped the weight on his foot. Braginski stood nearby, in a t-shirt like the rest of them. But he was allowed the scarf, wrapped around his throat. And mittens. Mittens would be nice, Gilbert reflected, as he threw the weight back onto the rack.

"Yo," Gilbert muttered, shaking out his hands. "Braginski, right?"

Braginski smiled. "That is my last name. You can call me Ivan."

Gilbert suddenly felt the cold again. He suddenly remembered where he was. He didn't want to talk. All he wanted was a warm blanket and sleep. "Sure."

Braginski's smile didn't waver. "I'm sure Alfred has mentioned me."

Gilbert shrugged. "He said you hit some kid with your car."

For the first time, something other than a smile. His eye twitched. "He walked in front of my car."

Gilbert's skin crawled. Alfred—up to his ears in bullshit, sure—had described the scene as if he had actually been there. The kid might have stepped in front of the car, but Braginski certainly didn't try to swerve.

"Where'd you get the mittens?"

For a second, Braginski just smiled at him, looking over Gilbert's shoulder. The silence stretched on, becoming awkward. Becoming threatening, and Gilbert realized he could never fight the boy in front of him, who was barrel-chested and tall and dangerous. He planted his feet, balled his fists, ready for—

Braginski looked away, smile fading, eyebrows furrowed. "Knitting club." He glanced back at Gilbert, then away, distracted. "It was nice to meet you."

* * *

 **Sorry for the long wait. Here we have Gilbert, making friends with trouble.**

 **Thanks to** 78meg9 **,** Breathing in Poison **,** Bisexual cookie **, and** alovinggirl **for reviewing!**

 **To** Nice but **, they are teenaged boys. They cuss. XD**


	4. Laundry

"You won't be here forever, boys," the counselor said. Everyone called him Fred, but he had introduced himself to the 'new members' as Frederich. "You're going to get out of here, and you'll need to keep yourself out of the real big house."

Gilbert stared at his knees, felt his cheeks burn. Who was this man to scold them? There was a queasy sort of shame that rolled in his stomach whenever Frederich looked his way. Gilbert picked at a loose thread on his pants.

"This facility," Frederich continued, "is a safety net. We're here to ask you, show you, what you could do differently next time."

Alfred, next to him, jiggled his knee. Gilbert switched his attention there. Maybe it wasn't Gilbert's fault he was here. Maybe it was the fucking stupid law's fault. Maybe it was the asshole judge's, in his comfy chair.

Gilbert shifted in his plastic seat.

He shouldn't have come to this thing. Alfred had explained that if you pissed the guards off, sometimes they took away privileges. Therapy was somehow a privilege. Gilbert should have thrown a punch, refused to get out of bed, thrown a dirty look back at the guards.

Bonnefoy was sitting across from him. Fuck him. Gilbert glared at him.

"The key, boys, is to find something you value. I don't know if that's God, or art, or camping, but you need to find that thing and let it guide you."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "What if my 'thing' is shoplifting?"

Frederich let out a soft laugh. "I meant more of a positive thing. For instance, I want to help people. I want to help people who still have a chance." He looked around at the circle of boys. "Does anyone think they have something? Francis?"

Francis examined his nail beds. "Love."

There were a few snickers around the room.

Frederich nodded. "That's good! What—"

Francis glanced at him. "Of course, that is what got me thrown in here."

"Sending nudes isn't love," Alfred said. "You were horny and your girlfriend was stupid enough to snitch on you. Sucks, dude."

Francis looked at Alfred, slowly. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

"Boys—"

Alfred held up his hands. "I was just sharing with the group." Alfred slumped in his chair. He tilted his head towards Gilbert. "He's a perv," he whispered, loud enough for the whole circle to hear.

Frederich switched his attention to Gilbert. "What do you value…" He checked his list of names. "Gilbert?"

 **…**

Ludwig fiddled with the settings. Gilbert watched him, sprawled out on one of the benches, on his back. When Ludwig had fed the machine enough quarters, he took a step back, hands behind his back.

"Are you gonna' eat your doughnut?" Gilbert shook the bag. "I spent good laundry money on this thing."

Ludwig turned. "I _told_ you not to get it for me!"

"You didn't eat breakfast. And no, toast doesn't count as breakfast. It might be healthy, but a real American breakfast is full of transfat." Gilbert grinned. "Just eat the stupid thing. I bought it for you."

Ludwig took the bag, and Gilbert slid his legs off the bench so he could sit. They watched the laundry spin through the cycles. Whites first, and Gilbert's bedsheets rolled endlessly. It almost looked like the ocean through a submarine porthole. If the waves were white.

"How's the doughnut?"

Ludwig glanced over, seemed to struggle with the answer. Then, his face broke into a smile. "It's really good."

"Fuck yeah it is!" Gilbert laughed. "Don't tell Dad, 'cause he might have a conniption."

"I wouldn't."

"What's with the frown, little dude?" Gilbert raised an eyebrow, put his hands behind his head. He had to crane his neck to look at Ludwig, but he looked way cooler lying down than sitting up. "He wouldn't really care."

"Gilbert… Dad said that..." He fidgeted.

Ludwig's face was far too serious. His frown cut into his cheeks, and Gilbert would have done anything to stop talking about this now. Hell, he and his father barely spoke—how Ludwig knew anything about anything didn't make any sense.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Gilbert put his legs in Ludwig's lap. "Dad just thinks he knows best about everything, when he doesn't know anything about me. Or you." Gilbert wiggled his legs.

Ludwig didn't answer, and they sat in silence, watching the laundry turn.

 **…**

"Gilbert?"

Gilbert's eyes snapped back to Frederich. "What?"

The man smiled, much too soft and sat for Gilbert right now. Gilbert didn't want that smile, he didn't want to be here. It was suddenly impossible to swallow the lump in his throat. He was highly aware of the eyes on him.

"What do you value?" Frederich asked again.

"Laundry."

A laugh went around the circle, and the tension eased. Gilbert's fingers shook, and he stared at the center of the circle and ignored everything.

 **…**

The light had been left on. Gilbert stared at the calendar and gritted his teeth. His eyes were hot, and his cheeks were burning. He refused to cry, refused to, refused to.

But God, he fucking missed Ludwig. And he missed his house, and Ludwig doing sit-ups on with every piece of furniture as his counter-weight, and he missed his bed that didn't smell like a thousand different bodies.

He missed the bird that lived outside his window, and his father getting up early for work, and relaxing as the car pulled away. Organizing the pantry, Ludwig watching on the stool. Ludwig at soccer, the biggest kid on the team, Gilbert holding signs and screaming.

He missed getting high and drinking and curling up on the end of Ludwig's bed and listening to him breathe or read. Gilbert closed his eyes and saw Ludwig silhouetted in lamp light, swore he could heard the turning of pages.

Gilbert covered his face, and he felt his face twist into a silent sob. He leaned forward, trapping the noises that made his shoulders shake. His bed creaked as he rocked. He wasn't even sure how to call home.

"Beilschmidt?"

Gilbert jerked away, faced the wall, and fell onto his side. His breathing hitched, and he panicked, trying to wipe away his tears and calm down. But again his breathing hitched, and he let out a wet cough.

Francis' bed creaked as he moved. Gilbert tensed. Waited for the other boy to say something— _anything_ , and Gilbert was going to kill him. That he promised to himself.

Gilbert's cheeks burned. " _What_?" he snapped, but it sounded weak to even his ears. A fresh wave of tears. "What the fuck do you want, now? Just leave me the fuck—" He had to snap himself off, before a sob. But Bonnefoy had heard it, how couldn't he have?

There was silence, and Gilbert became more tense, rubbed at his cheeks, knew the light would glisten off the tears if he sat up.

"I forgive you for the calendar."

Gilbert curled into a ball. "Fuck you."


	5. Maple Syrup

Gilbert opened his eyes. He was still curled on his side, hugging his legs, facing the wall. It was still too early to be up, but Gilbert couldn't go back to sleep, not with the angry mutters of the other boys, the clang from the kitchen.

Crust from his tears had dried on his face. Gilbert rubbed his palm into his cheek, gritting his teeth.

Fucking weak, that's what he was. He promised himself he wouldn't cry, not again. Not ever. He wouldn't let this place turn him into a fucking sissy.

He rolled over and sat up.

Bonnefoy was up, leaning against the wall. He flipped idly through a magazine with a half-naked girl on the front. It looked fancier than a porn magazine, though.

"Morning," Bonnefoy said, still reading.

Gilbert tensed. "If you tell anyone I was—was doing that last night, I will kill you. I swear to God, I'll kill you if you tell Alfred or…" Gilbert clenched his teeth. "I swear to God, Bonnefoy."

"The polite thing to say is: 'Good morning, Francis. How did you sleep?'" Francis glanced up, then back to his magazine. "I slept fine, thanks. I won't tell anyone, you don't have to worry."

Gilbert really hadn't expected it to be that easy. He blinked. "Okay. Thanks, I guess." He stood, swaying on his feet, slightly. It didn't feel right to just leave. "I am sorry about the calendar."

The sound of thin, paper pages rustling.

Finally, Francis shrugged. "You are forgiven."

 **…**

Alfred wasn't eating—it was fucking incredible.

Gilbert dipped his scrambled eggs in the maybe syrup, the only condiment readily available. The eggs tasted like scrambled cotton balls, but with the syrup, it tasted like cotton balls covered in syrup.

"Can I have your maple syrup?" Gilbert asked, pouring the rest of his on the sausage.

Alfred grunted. "Dude, I really don't give a fuck."

"Sweet, thanks—"

"Can you, like, shut the fuck up?" Alfred's hand ran up under his glasses and massaged his eyes. He threw his legs over the bench and hunched over, back to Gilbert. "Fucking fuck."

Gilbert swallowed. "Are you okay?"

"No, you know what? I'm not fucking okay." Alfred sat up. "I'm pissed off, that's what I am."

"Did something happen or—"

Alfred stood. " _Braginski_!"

Gilbert stood, the back of his knees hitting the metal bench. "Alfred, what—"

"Ivan, get your ass over here, you mother _fucker_!" Alfred put his hands on his hips.

Gilbert struggled to get his legs out from under the table. "Alfred, shut up or the guards—"

And then Alfred was off.

"Fuck," Gilbert said.

All the sleepy eyes watched Alfred stride across the kitchen, looking like a man with places to be. Gilbert struggled to catch up before Alfred did something really stupid. Honestly, Alfred probably ran his mouth off and Braginski insulted his mother.

Braginski didn't turn as Alfred approached. The other kids sitting with him slid away or stood away from the table, but Braginski didn't even seem to hear Alfred.

"Hey, fucker," Alfred said, words rough in his throat.

Still no response.

Alfred grabbed Braginski's scarf and hauled him backwards. Braginski fell on his ass, but Alfred kept dragging him.

"Stand _up_ , Ivan! Stop ignoring—"

Braginski reached up and grabbed Alfred's arm and twisted. Alfred hissed and released him, and Braginski gave him a shove backwards. He hopped up, back to Alfred.

"Ivan," Alfred said again.

Braginski adjusted his scarf.

" _Ivan_."

Braginski's head turned slightly towards Alfred. "I have nothing to say to you, Jones."

Alfred lunged forward and grabbed Braginski's arm, dragging Ivan around to face him. " _Bull_ shit!"

Braginski slapped Alfred's hands off of him. They had gathered the guard's attention now, and Gilbert looked around to see every face turned towards them. Gilbert wasn't sure what punishments were like in this place, but it didn't seem like it'd be a good time.

"Alfred," Gilbert hissed.

Gilbert didn't even register on Alfred's radar.

Alfred and Braginski stared at each other. Gilbert knew the calm before a fight, could see it in the way Alfred's eyes flicked over Braginski's posture, his hands clenching and unclenching. But Braginski was tall and strong, and Alfred was wired and balanced.

"Alfred," Gilbert said, louder.

Braginski's eyes flicked to Gilbert for a brief second. "Tell my replacement to shut up before I hurt him."

Gilbert's hackles rose, but Alfred didn't so much as look at him.

"Ivan, what the _fuck_ is the matter?" Alfred asked, voice hoarse. "Just tell me, I can fix it, I promise."

Braginski snapped forward and grabbed Alfred's throat, lifting him off his feet. Gilbert's feet were moving before he registered what was happening. He pried at Braginski's fingers, got them loose, was left holding Braginski's hand.

And then Braginski pulled his right hand free and punched Gilbert in the face.

Gilbert had never been punched in the face before.

Stars filled his vision—real stars, like in cartoons—and he stumbled, face numb.

And then the pain hit. Gilbert blinked away tears, his whole face throbbing, pain, pain, pain, through his jaw into his head. The kitchen spun and he stumbled again. That fucking _hurt_.

Gilbert got his feet under him, focused his eyes on Braginski and Alfred. They were close, but Gilbert couldn't tell what they were doing, but logically, Braginski was finishing what he started, right?

A hand on Gilbert's shoulder.

"Gilbert," an accented voice, "Alfred isn't worth it—"

Gilbert ran forward and slammed his shoulder into Braginski. Braginski snarled and slammed a fist down on Gilbert's back. Gilbert's legs buckled, and Braginski put his hand on Gilbert's head and shoved him to the ground.

Gilbert's head cracked against the concrete, his vision blurred around the edges, he tasted something in his mouth, was reminded of the dentist. Pain in his head, throb, throb, throb. Something warm dripped down his chin.

Some time in there, a place of dulled noise and blurred color.

Then, someone hauled Gilbert to his feet. The world snapped back into focus, first sight, and then sound. A guard had Gilbert by one arm and the back of the neck.

"Let go," Gilbert snarled.

The guard gave Gilbert a shake. "Stay quiet," he barked, another shake. "Stay fucking _quiet_!"

Braginski had his hands up, backing away from the guards, talking low. Alfred was nearby—

"It was Gilbert," he was saying to the guards. "It was Beilschmidt, it was him, he started it, not Ivan, swear to God. Braginski and I were just talking, Gilbert was being aggressive, Ivan was defending himself."

Alfred met Gilbert's eyes evenly. Gilbert struggled against the guard.

" _Fuck_ you, Jones!" Gilbert kicked out, spittle and blood flying from his mouth. "Fuck _you_ , fuck!" The guard twisted Gilbert's arm and he let out a half-sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, ow, ow."

"—I didn't mean to shove him so hard," Braginski was saying.

"Ow, ow—"

" _Stop moving, Beilschmidt_!"

A door rattled open and Winter walked in.

Everyone froze, even Gilbert, his arm screaming at him.

It was as silent as Gilbert had ever heard it.

Winter strolled over to the group, hands behind his back, boots clicking on the concrete; loudest thing in the room. His beard was short and cropped neatly. Braginski backed away further, and even Jones tensed.

Gilbert's breath was ragged in his mouth, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Adrenaline made him want to stand, to have both hands free when this man faced him, but Gilbert's knees shook and the guard hitched his arm up higher.

Winter walked up to Gilbert, tilted his head, and smiled.

* * *

 **Hey, babs, remember this story ? It's only been like five months lol.**


	6. Dear

The door opened and Gilbert was thrown in. His legs were shaking and he couldn't get his feet under him and he banged against the cot. He fell, knee scrapping on the concrete. The door, rattling shut behind him.

His mouth throbbed, throbbed, throbbed. He prodded around his mouth with his tongue. His fucking tooth moved in his _mouth_. Pain flared through his whole jaw, and tears sprung to his eyes.

One hand on the bed, he lifted himself up, knees shaking. His head pounded, and he had to collapse back onto the cot. Blacks spots across his eyes, hearing fading in and out. He blinked until he could focus on the door on the other side of the room.

A concussion.

Ludwig had one, once. He had slept for a week, talking with Gilbert when the boredom became too much.

Fuck, what were the symptoms? Poor memory, dizziness, vision fading in and out. Gilbert closed his eyes, wracked his brain.

And his _mouth_. He could taste blood coating the sides of his tongue, taste it going down his throat. He nearly gagged, but the blood kept coming, and he fell on his knees in front of the toilet, spitting blood in globs.

They had thrown him in a tiny cell. The cot was against one wall, toilet against another. It would only take two steps to step from the cot to the door.

There was a buzz in his ears—utter silence. He shook his head, spat more blood. Maybe he was deaf now. Maybe that was just his life. He hummed, just to make sure he could still hear. People with concussions lost hearing.

"Hey," he called, air making his mouth burn. "Hey!" he yelled. "I need a doctor, I think! _Hey_!"

Nothing.

Gilbert dragged himself back onto the cot. Hugged his legs to his chest. Stared at the door.

He let the anger wash over him, let it fucking fester.

Fucking mother fucking _Alfred_. That fucker had left him to the wolves, looked him in the eye and lied right to Gilbert's fucking face. Him and Braginski. Those two fuckers were in some sort of cahoots, and Gilbert should have kept his fucking mouth shut.

Now he had a concussion and was stuck in here. Wherever 'here' was—and Gilbert was pretty sure it was solitary confinement. He was certainly alone and confined.

Gilbert let his head rest against the wall behind him.

Fucking Alfred.

 _My replacement_.

Gilbert closed his eyes.

 **…**

" _Gilbert_!"

Gilbert felt his stomach drop, his heart jump into his throat. He slammed his window open, threw his legs over the side, and fucking slid out into the open air.

He rolled the best he could, ankles burning, nerves in his feet screaming. He limped away as fast as he could, ducking around the neighbor's house, the dog howling at him. He walked across the yard, hauled himself over the fence, kept walking.

It was expected to snow. The sky was gray, clouds tumbling. Gilbert watched the skies as he walked through town. He hopped over the potholes. Slid on the ice, seeing how far he could glide.

Outside a laundromat, he dug through the dumpsters until he found a bottle of bleach.

He sat in the park, sitting on the swing that was too small for him. Sat until it was getting dark, then he walked home, his shadow far ahead of him. It hadn't snowed, and the sun was out.

By the time Gilbert was home, his father was back at work.

Ludwig threw open the door, standing there in his shoes too small, his hair a mess, cheeks flushed. He had oven mitts on, and Gilbert felt his heart swell.

"Hey!"

"Where _were_ you?" Ludwig stepped aside so Gilbert could walk it. "Father was furious. He was saying he was going to call the police and have them throw you in a cell." Ludwig followed behind him. "Gilbert—"

"Hey, wanna' help me do something?" Gilbert held up the bleach.

Ludwig frowned, looking between Gilbert and the bleach. "We did laundry already."

Gilbert laughed. "No, goon. We're going to dye my hair. What're you cooking? Oh, _shit_ , are those cookies?" Gilbert reached into the oven, trying to grab at a cookie without burning himself.

"Gilbert."

Gilbert looked around, sucking at his fingers. "Mm?"

Ludwig was twisting his oven mitts around, twisting his fingers in the fabric, eyes turned downwards. His eyebrows were knitted together, frown so harsh on his face. "I'm worried about you and Father."

"Oh." Gilbert wiped his hand on his jeans. "Oh, hey. Listen, you don't have to worry about anything."

"I do though." Ludwig glanced up, then down. "Can you please just go to school?"

Gilbert sighed. "School's fucking awful, Ludwig. I know you like it, but it's…" Gilbert shook his head. "There's better stuff I can be doing."

"But—"

Gilbert reached forward and ran his fingers through Ludwig's hair. "I don't want to talk about school! Why don't you make sure I don't burn my scalp and help me dye my hair, huh? Lot more fun than talking about Dad, right?"

 **…**

Gilbert stared at the food slot. There was nothing else to do.

 _Dear Ludwig_.

Gilbert prodded around his mouth with his tongue.

 _How have you been? I've been good. Jail isn't so bad. I wouldn't recommend it for you. But. It's probably where I should be._

 _I hope things have been better with me out of the house. It should be quieter. I hope you and Dad have a game night or something. We have a knitting club here in jail. I can't join because they've deemed me as violent._

The food slot opened. Gilbert ran and banged on the door.

" _Hey_!" he yelled. "I need to see a doctor, _please_! Please, I got in a fight—"

A tray was shoved through, and it hit Gilbert in the stomach. He jumped back, and the tray fell on the floor, food scattering across the concrete.

Gilbert kicked the door, yelling. "You _fucker_! Let me see a fucking _doctor_! My head had hurt since—since when you threw me in here! Hey! Are you fucking listening!" He banged his fists against the doors, the metal swallowing up any noise he hoped for.

" _Hey_! I'm still fucking _in_ here! Let me out!" Pound. Pound. " _Let me the fuck out of here_!" Gilbert kicked the door, again and again. Until his feet hurt. Until his hands were numb.

Gilbert rested his forehead against the cold metal.

There was a piece of bread on the ground. Gilbert picked it up, pulling off pieces and shoving them in the part of his mouth that hurt the least. He chewed slowly, staring at the food slot.

 _Dear Ludwig._

Something crunched in his mouth, and Gilbert spat the food into the toilet.

 _Jail isn't so bad, actually! Weird, huh? It's like a resort! Better cooking than Chinese food every night._

Gilbert picked the tray up. There were frozen waffles, maple syrup pooled on the ground. Gilbert scrapped it up with the tray the best he could, shook the waffles out like that would somehow make the freezer burn disappear.

 _There are some assholes here, but it's hard not to find assholes. I thought this one kid was my friend, but he wasn't. How are your friends?_

Gilbert shoved the tray under the door.

 _Dear Ludwig._

 _I miss you. I even miss Dad. Weird, huh?_

Gilbert crawled back onto the cot, rolled onto his side, stared at the food slot.

Gilbert started. He sat up, kicking at the sheets of his bed, whipping around. His breathing was heavy—where was he, where was he?

He had fallen asleep. He hadn't even realized.

Gilbert stood and tried to pace, but he was turning around more than he was pacing. Pushups, then.

The concrete floor was a nice change of pace. Up, down, up down up downupdown.

 _Dear Ludwig._

 _I don't think they're going to let me out of here. I hope you're not worried about me. I know you'll do fine. You're a good kid._

Updownupdown.

Gilbert rolled onto his back, legs straddling the toilet. He did pullups. Up. Slow down. Up. Slow down.

 _Dear Ludwig._

Gilbert was covered in sweat, breath ragged.

 _I miss you._

The food slot opened, and Gilbert scrambled off the ground, slamming his fists against the door.

" _Please_ ," he yelled, "God, I'm begging you!"

The food tray against his stomach.


End file.
